


Yoga is good for health (but not for John's mental health)

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: H.I.A.T.U.S. collection [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, H.I.A.T.U.S., M/M, Sexual Frustration, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:49:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: Sherlock keeps complaining about being bored. Exasperated, John suggests him to try yoga, but he will quickly regret his words (or maybe not).





	Yoga is good for health (but not for John's mental health)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [June](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/post/174385619597/junes-theme-is) H.I.A.T.U.S. challenge, themed "yoga", using this prompt: "John comes home early from the clinic one day to find Sherlock doing some yoga… in nothing but his pants."

"I'm bored," Sherlock muttered, stretched dramatically in his chair, his toes stirring unceasingly.

Sitting at the table in the living room, John typed slowly on his laptop, trying to ignore him.

"I'm bored," Sherlock sighed again.

The fingers on the keyboard stumbled for a moment, but then they resumed writing.

"I am bored," Sherlock proclaimed loudly, punctuating each word. This time he expected some reaction from John, but he refused to satisfy him, and an outraged expression made its way on Sherlock's face.

"John, I said I'm bored."

"Since you've been repeating it continuously for over half an hour, I understood it very well," John growled through gritted teeth: he was already reaching the limit of his not proverbial patience.

"Then do something!"

"I'm not your personal entertainer!” John protested, “besides, I'm not the one who is bored, I don’t care about your whims."

"You are completely useless!"

Sherlock rolled off his chair and lay down on the ground with his limbs wide open, like a starfish.

"And you're worse than a child," John replied, closing the lid of the laptop: it was useless to try to work when Sherlock was complaining, he couldn’t concentrate.

"But I..."

"Don’t repeat it again! If you get bored, find something to do, and no,” John pointed his forefinger at him, blocking Sherlock’s protests, “cigarettes aren’t a valid alternative."

"Then there's nothing to do."

"Choose a case among those who came to your mail."

"They are all stupid."

"Go and ask one to Lestrade."

"He doesn’t have anything interesting either."

"Play sudoku, do some crosswords, try yoga, your choice!"

Sherlock gripped his curls tightly, emitting a verse halfway between a bray and a hiss, and for a moment John almost felt sorry for him, before Sherlock snorted one of his most classic insults.

"Why do I even talk to you? An ordinary mind like yours will never understand the levels that my frustration reaches."

John barked a sarcastic laugh.

"Believe me, I know very well. I can’t crash my laptop on your head, because it would break, and this makes me very frustrated right now."

"No, you don’t know, you can’t even imagine it," Sherlock moaned, rolling on his stomach.

"Oh, stop it! You are a drama queen, that's what you are."

Sherlock snorted: "You just confirm what I just said. I would like to be able to make you feel my frustration, then you would understand!"

From where he lay, Sherlock stretched his neck and looked at him for several minutes (probably to further irritate him, John thought) until a spark of interest lit up in his eyes, as if he had just worked out a plan.

Since this didn’t bode well, John took his laptop and went into his room, determined, for his own sanity, not to get involved in whatever Sherlock had in mind.

His mistake was to believe he had some say in this regard.

 

For the next two days Sherlock was very quiet, busy on a search on his computer, reading long articles and taking notes.

John couldn’t deny that he was a little curious, but since Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to share what he was researching, he just enjoyed the newfound domestic peace.

But it was too good to last long, John should have known.

When he returned home that afternoon, after a long day at the clinic, he thought he had a hallucination.

It was stress due to work overload, or someone had drugged the coffee of the vending machine at the clinic (was that the reason why it was so bad?)

In short, there must have been a plausible reason for what he was looking at, that was, Sherlock sitting cross-legged on a lavender mat, his eyes closed, his hands resting on his knees, his back straight, in a state of almost absolute nudity, except for a pair of tight white boxers.

Very tight.

It was that detail that made John regain control of his thoughts and quickly look away: the damp spot on the ceiling above the right window deserved all his attention, for example.

"What... what t-the bloody hell are you doing?" He stammered.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him, as calm as a Buddha.

"Yoga. Isn’t that obvious even for you?"

"Okay, but why are you naked?"

Sherlock looked down at his crotch and then up again.

John licked his lips and he cursed himself for doing it. And besides, hadn’t he looked away, dammit?

"Is it a problem? Technically I'm not nude."

John was assailed by the desire to strangle him. Just a little.

"However, to answer your question, the _Beginner's Yoga Handbook_ advises you to approach this discipline by stripping yourself of all useless frills, mental and physical. And who am I to contradict a handbook?"

The temperature in the room wasn’t very hot, and Sherlock's nipples were upright and protruding.

_"I told you not to look, John Watson, or I'll have to pry your eyes out."_

John thought briefly about the situation, then shook his head laughing.

"A scientist like you, practicing yoga?"

"You suggested it the other day."

"What? You are drunk!"

"Sudoku, crosswords or yoga, your words."

"But... but... you didn’t have to take me literally!"

Sherlock shook his head, stretched out his legs, rolled up the mat, and went in front of him; John backed slightly in front of this technically non-nude Sherlock.

 _"Don’t look at moles on his chest... does he shave? It seems so. Ignore the freckles on his shoulders and look him in the eye. Not on the lips! I said in the eyes!"_ John thought, quite furious with himself.

"I followed your advice, and yet you're not happy. You are really hard to please,” sighed Sherlock, shaking his head.

"It's not true," John protested. "It's just that I can’t picture you following a meditative discipline."

"Don’t worry, I will not start talking about chakras, but meditation helps me fight boredom, while physical exercise is good for health. You should know that, doctor."

"Yes, yes, I know very well," John replied. He felt slightly ridiculous, indeed, because Sherlock had actually followed his advice; but anyway, Sherlock's decision to practice yoga, technically non-nude, was problematic in itself.

John had never denied that Sherlock had a beautiful body: the vain man wore only tailored suits that fit him perfectly and made it impossible not to notice, but usually John was able to ignore it, or not to think about it too much. Instead now it was such a blatant exhibition of flesh and skins that it was impossible to look away.

There was the same difference between walking absentmindedly in front of the window of a pastry shop, and entering the shop.

Not that John had ever compared Sherlock to some food to eat, or that he had formulated a thought containing Sherlock, custard or whipped cream all together.

Not when he was conscious, at least. About dreams… well, no one had control over their own dreamlike imagery, right?

 

The living room of Baker Street was very quiet: no frustrated sighs, no complaints, no whims, no impossible request such as, _"John, I'm bored, do something."_

The ideal conditions for writing something on his blog, yet John couldn’t concentrate and hadn’t yet typed a single word since sitting in his chair.

All because of Sherlock, lying a few meters away from him, doing yoga. And he couldn’t even reproach him, because Sherlock wasn’t noisy: he stayed still several minutes and then changed position, without creating the slightest disturbance; yet John's traitorous gaze kept moving from the laptop's screen to his flatmate, technically non-nude.

John rested his fingers on the keyboard once more, determined to start writing a sentence, any sentence, when Sherlock moved again.

He lay down on his back, planted both feet on the mat, arched his back, helping himself with his hands resting on the lower back, and stayed still, offering John a privileged view of his genitals. The tight boxers did nothing to hide them: on the contrary, they seemed made to highlight the contours of the testicles and the quiescent penis.

_"He's not very long, but not small; he's average, not circumcised and... John Hamish Watson, are you really assessing your flatmate's cock? Stop it, or I will keep the promise to pry your eyes out!"_

John grabbed the base of his nose between his fingers and exhaled noisily.

"Are you alright, John?" asked Sherlock's soft voice.

"Sure, why?"

"You haven’t written anything yet."

"I'm reading the comments," John croaked.

"Hm."

Again, John picked up the laptop and went to his bedroom.

He had managed to do it keeping his dignity intact, but he was undeniably hard, and every step had been a torture.

He locked the door (in case Sherlock decided to break in, announcing that they had a client), laid on the bed and touched himself over his trousers.

It wasn’t his fault, he thought, snorting, whoever would react in the same way to Sherlock's obscene pose.

He could wait for the erection to abate, but his brain kept evoking the image of Sherlock lifting his hips, like a silent offer, and this didn’t help, so he finally lowered his trousers with a sigh, and took a tissue.

He had no trouble admitting his bisexuality, but so far he had avoided involving his best friend in his fantasies, because they weren’t together, and the detective seemed absolutely distant and inaccessible.

But that time he couldn’t help but think of Sherlock (technically non-nude) as he tossed off, and he reached orgasm in a shamefully short period of time, compared to usual, but remained with a vague sense of dissatisfaction throughout the evening.

 

John hoped that Sherlock would quickly get tired of yoga, like a small child losing interest in a toy, but the following afternoon he found him still in the living room, sitting on the mat and technically non-nude.

"Couldn’t you do it in your room?” John protested, walking beside to get to his chair. “This is a common space."

"There’s no room in my bedroom right now."

"What? It’s the biggest room of the flat!"

The doctor marched steadily toward Sherlock's bedroom, opened the door, but saw that there were cardboard boxes full of documents and folders everywhere on the floor.

"What is this?"

"Lestrade brought me some old unsolved case files."

"All together?"

"It will not take long to solve them. And that's also something you suggested to fight boredom," Sherlock pointed out.

Yeah, John had no ground to complain: he was the one who told his flatmate to ask Lestrade for some cases, and to try yoga.

He wanted to bang his head against the wall.

Sherlock stretched his legs out on the mat and slowly bend his back forward, touched his feet with his hands, and stood in that position for several minutes, then rose again, and John released a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding back.

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and gave him a questioning look.

"Don’t you get a backache in that position?" John asked, clearing his throat.

"No, I'm very flexible."

"Yes, I see. Err... do you need the bathroom? I'd like to take a shower."

"You took it this morning before going to work."

"At the clinic the air conditioning is broken."

"I see. Go on, then."

Of course, there was no broken air conditioning, John just needed an excuse to slip into the shower and masturbate furiously, fantasizing about Sherlock's flexibility and how he could take advantage of it, bending Sherlock in half under him between the sheets, or on the kitchen table, or on the floor, on top of that damn lavender mat where Sherlock settled for the exercises, and towards which John felt an irrational envy.

When John came, he bit his lip to avoid shouting.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sherlock asked, at dinner.

"Yes why?"

"You seem worn out."

"We have many patients."

"You should try yoga too," Sherlock suggested, resting his fork on the plate. "It's really good for your health, and relaxes your mind and spirit."

 _"Bullshit: your yoga is driving me crazy,"_ thought John, twisting the napkin between his fingers, but nodded absently, hoping to be convincing.

"I'll think about it."

 

"Can I take a few more shifts here at the clinic?" John asked Sarah at lunchtime.

"I'm sorry, but it's not an intense period of work, and there's no vacancy to cover. What's wrong with Sherlock?"

"Why must it be about it? Can’t I just want a little more money?"

"No,” Sarah replied, bluntly. “If you ask to do less shifts is because Sherlock has an interesting case to follow, while if you want to stay here more, you had a fight."

Troubled, John wondered when he had become such an open book. And especially what Sherlock read on that book, lately.

 

Even a pose as harmless as that of standing motionless on one leg, was problematic to John, because all Sherlock’s muscles were tense in the effort to maintain balance, and, in his imagination, John approached and stroked him, feeling the muscles contracting and vibrating under the palm of his hands.

That day his retreat to the room was more precipitous than usual, but, at this point, John didn’t care about dignity anymore, and he didn’t even answer Sherlock's usual question: "Are you all right, John?"

 

Maybe there was something wrong with him, maybe he hadn’t had sex for too long, maybe he was turning into a pervert, because a lot of people did yoga every day. As a doctor he knew it was just some physical exercises that were good for the body, and that there was nothing erotic about it: asanas weren’t the positions of the kamasutra.

And yet, whatever position Sherlock took, on his knees, lying on his back with his legs behind his head, or on all fours on the mat, John pictured himself clinging to him, in a far less spiritual activity than yoga.

He was tired, yes, but the job at the clinic had nothing to do with it: by now he had come to masturbate twice a day, as Sherlock's yoga sessions grew longer, and they included all sorts of positions that were like gas on the fire of John's imagination.

Masturbating would have to help him release the tension and relax, instead was happening the opposite, and John was increasingly dissatisfied and nervous, because fantasies were a miserable palliative, when he had the real Sherlock, naked a few inches from him, so close that he just had to extend his arm to touch him.

But he couldn’t.

It wasn’t just like being inside a pastry shop. It was like being inside the best pastry shop in the city and being on a strict diet, without being able to bite or lick anything.

John came so suddenly that he didn’t even have time to take a tissue, this time.

He had to find a solution, he thought, he couldn’t go on like this.

 

Perhaps, if he really tried very hard, he could get to ignore Sherlock, technically non-nude, as if he weren’t in the room. After all, he was a soldier, he had learned discipline, dammit!

Indifferent to his umpteenth inner drama, Sherlock was lying prone on the mat, and had been still for several minutes; just when John began to relax, believing that today menu’s wouldn’t have included any exotic pose, Sherlock raised himself on his arms.

John's eyes rest on the line of his shoulder blades, on the sinuous curve of his back, and inevitably fell on his buttocks, firm and inviting.

John felt his hands itch with the desire to touch them, and had to rest them on his knees to calm down.

Well, so far his plan to ignore Sherlock couldn’t be called a success, but it wasn’t his fault! It didn’t happen every day to admire such a roundish perfection, which vaguely reminded a...

"Peaches" Sherlock said, and John opened his eyes wide in terror: his worst nightmare had come true, Sherlock had really learned to read minds, and was now going through John's erotic imagery, including his distorted and depraved idea of yoga, and...

"John, are you listening to me?” Sherlock asked, turning his head towards him. “I said I bought some peaches. Do you want one?"

 _"I do not want a peach, I want your peach,"_ John thought John, deliriously, as he cursed himself for being an idiot and panicking, and this only increased his nervousness. "No! I don’t want a peach!" He snapped.

"All right, but calm down: there's no reason to get angry like that," Sherlock replied.

John jumped up and put his hands on the mantelpiece, squeezing it so hard that he was surprised not to hear it creak.

His heart almost jumped out of his chest when Sherlock put his hands on his shoulders: he hadn’t even heard him approach.

"Has anyone ever told you that it's a bad idea to surprise a former soldier with a post-traumatic stress disorder?"

"If it's not dangerous, where’s the fun?"

"What are you doing, anyway?" John asked sharply, shrugging with feigned indifference. He wasn’t sure he could control himself, if Sherlock began to touch him.

"You're terribly tense."

_"Yeah, tell me something I don’t know."_

"You really should try yoga." Sherlock insisted.

"Sherlock, no..." His mind really didn’t need any further stimulation, like him and Sherlock doing yoga together: it was dangerously close to his fantasies.

"Why? What could go wrong?" The detective asked innocently.

 _"Do you want a list? Get comfortable, because it will be long,"_ John thought.

But somehow, Sherlock maneuvered and brought him near his yoga mat.

"You will feel better and then you will thank me. Take off your clothes."

"No!" John cried in a choked voice. He couldn’t be technically non-nude in front of Sherlock, not now.

"As you wish,” Sherlock sighed, “but take off at least shoes and socks, before getting on the mat."

John resigned himself to obeying, because he knew Sherlock wouldn’t give up until he proved his point.

"What should I do?"

"Let's start with something simple: Vrksasana."

John laughed: "With that the name, it seems anything but simple."

"It's the tree pose, and it's one of the basic asanas: lift your right leg and rest the feet on the thigh of your left leg, then bring your arms over your head... no, don’t be so stiff, or you'll lose balance."

"What do you expect? I'm not a fucking flamingo!"

As was to be expected, John tripped over, fell on Sherlock and the two found themselves on the floor; John had somehow managed to stop the fall, placing both hands on the sides of Sherlock's head, near his naked shoulders, his face a few centimeters far from those beautiful, firm lips.

An infinitesimal yet unbridgeable distance.

He got up on his knees and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

He had never felt so frustrated in his life.

Frustrated?

A light bulb went off in his head, because they had a conversation about frustration, just before the madness of yoga began, a conversation in which Sherlock had said he wanted to make John feel his own frustration.

And John had accumulated lot of it.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that the innocent expression of Sherlock had turned into one of amusement, and a crooked little smile hung over his lips.

"You!” John growled, pointing his forefinger against him. “You tosser! You did it on purpose! This whole yoga thing was just a farce to drive me crazy."

Sherlock bent his lips in the parody of a thoughtful grimace: "Hm, not completely. Actually, it really helped me keep boredom away, even if meditation has nothing to do with it. And now you know what it means to feel frustrated like me."

John should have been furious, he should have felt the irrepressible impulse to drop Sherlock from the window on Mrs. Hudson's bins, several times, but a small part of him could almost understand Sherlock’s motives (good god, he spent too much time next to him, if he had come to understand how he thought) and laugh at his plan. Besides, he was still kneeling over a technically non-nude Sherlock, so anger was certainly not the predominant feeling in him.

"You're completely out of your mind," he mumbled.

Sherlock shrugged: "You know that from the first day you met me, but here you are."

With a sudden move, John lifted Sherlock’s wrists over his head, keeping them in place with one hand, and bent over him again.

"Was it just a game for you?" He asked, and he was deadly serious.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but lowered his eyelids, looking down; John followed his gaze and saw that those ridiculous white boxers were stretched; so the situation wasn’t entirely indifferent to Sherlock, but it could also be just the excitement and adrenaline of the moment.

"Was it just a game for you?" He asked again, stubbornly, because he had to be sure: they couldn’t make mistakes, not on this.

"I would never have done yoga, naked in front of you, if I hadn’t wanted to find myself exactly where I am now, and if I hadn’t understood for some time that you too want it."

A sigh of relief found its way through John's lips; then he shook his head and chuckled.

"Technically, you're not nude."

Sherlock's giggle mimicked John's one.

"Not yet."

"Christ," John murmured; he put his free hand on Sherlock’s chest.

Oh, he was right twice: touching him was much better than his fantasies and, yes, Sherlock shaved.

He ran his hand along Sherlock’s stomach and abdomen, feeling the muscles quiver, and then slipped under the boxers without hesitation.

Sherlock shaved everywhere.

A delighted moan escaped from John's lips, covered by Sherlock’s heavy exhalation; he closed his eyes and arched his hips under John’s hand.

"Christ," John repeated, breathing on his lips. "Do you have any idea how many times I have dreamed of this moment? You think you know my fantasies, but you don’t know it."

Sherlock's penis pulsed in his hand.

Perhaps he knew: he had made John feel his frustration, but he hadn’t been immune to his own plan.

"So why are you still waiting?"

Sherlock lifted his neck and zeroed the distance between their mouths, which joined in a frantic, almost desperate kiss, devoid of any finesse.

John's hand clenching his wrists slipped down in his hair, leaving Sherlock free to undress him; John cursed when he had to interrupt the kiss to allow Sherlock to take his vest out.

"I told you to undress, first," Sherlock pouted petulantly.

"Well, I couldn’t have known the day would end that way," John replied, but he rose to allow Sherlock to lower his trousers and touch him; his hoarse moan probably was heard down the street, but John was too excited to care about anything other than Sherlock's fingers, tight around his aching cock.

Then Sherlock pushed him lightly, and John rolled on his side, waiting for his next move, but Sherlock just looked at him, stroking John’s sweaty skin from time to time with his fingertips.

"Well?" John snapped.

"You had almost two weeks to ogle at me, don’t you think it's my turn now?"

"Later," John replied, grabbing Sherlock's hand to bring it back on his erection. "Now I want..."

He stopped, finding a bit of lucidity. Yeah, what did he want?

He wanted to do with Sherlock everything he had imagined in those days, of course, but many of those activities required some preparation, as well as a chat, just to be sure to be on the same page. Only that, doing it now would have irremediably ruined the mood, and Sherlock would have become stroppy due to the interruption. Yet he had to say something.

"Sherlock, we have to... ooh..."

As John had foreseen, Sherlock had no desire to talk, and he wasn’t only extremely flexible, he was also as agile as a cat, because he reversed his position before John had time to realize what he was doing. He rested a hand on John's pelvis, bowed his head and licked at John’s glans, clicking his tongue on the palate to savour his taste.

John’s face became purple, and he covered it with one hand. If nothing else, that answered his silent doubt if Sherlock had any previous experience.

The amused giggle of his lover made John peek through the fingers of his hand.

"Did you think you were the only one who had fantasies?"

Sherlock seemed completely at ease, his face a few centimeters far from John’s penis, impatient to continue, and John was certainly not far behind.

"I might have thought it, but I'm happy to be wrong."

He stroked Sherlock's erection in all its length, using his thumb and forefinger to uncover the red, swollen tip, closed his eyes and welcomed it into his mouth, determined to give him the same pleasure he was receiving.

Sherlock started, moaning vocally, and a moment later John felt Sherlock’s mouth again around his cock, far beyond the tip, and his dark curls tickled his testicles; the sensation was so surprising that John let go of Sherlock's penis and cursed again.

His reaction didn’t escape Sherlock, who gently welcomed John's balls into his free hand and rubbed them with his thumb.

John moaned and shuddered: it wasn’t easy to concentrate, when Sherlock seemed determined to make him lose his mind, but he had always been a generous lover, so he grabbed the base of Sherlock's cock and guided him back into his mouth, caressing the throbbing veins with his tongue, until he felt Sherlock tremble.

Satisfied, John tightened his grip around his cock and sucked harder: Sherlock's strong tang on his palate told him that he was close to orgasm, so he stretched his free arm between Sherlock’s thighs, briefly squeezed his luscious buttocks (they were firm, indeed) and then he stroked Sherlock’s hole with his thumb, without forcing his way in, just stimulating the nerves of the sensitive area until Sherlock came, and then he continued to suck him, almost a little revenge for all the frustration that had accumulated in those days.

Sherlock groaned unceasingly, and John felt the vibrations of his low, hoarse voice running up his shaft, still trapped in his mouth, and exploding all over his body, then Sherlock just had to grip his testicles more tightly, twisting his wrist slightly, and John was coming fast and hard.

John rolled on his back, panting heavily; he blindly reached out, finding Sherlock's thigh, and gently stroked it, while Sherlock stretched with a satisfied sigh, like a huge cat.

"Is this your idea of a relaxing yoga session?"

"Under certain circumstances,” Sherlock answered, resting his head on John's thighs, “and with the right partner."

"So have we our own personal yoga, now?"

"If you want."

"I have nothing against it," John replied, closing his eyes.


End file.
